


Hiding in Plain Sight

by joosetta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joosetta/pseuds/joosetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loses Sam. Ceases to function. Sex ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiding in Plain Sight

The girl was perched on the hood of the Impala, looking like someone had just kicked her dog. And run it over. She was pretty, in a gangly sort of way, kind of tall and skinny with choppy mouse-brown hair that was hanging, tangled, over her scowl.

Dean felt like maybe he knew her from somewhere, and any other time he would have used that as a good pick up line, but Sam was missing, a ghost of discarded belongings and overturned furniture, and Dean needed to find him.

“Nice ride,” the girl said, nervously biting her thumbnail and looking as if she hadn’t even really looked at the Impala before she sat on it.

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean said, hoping he looked discouraging enough. Thank fuck; the girl seemed to take the hint, and slid off the hood, stumbling a little.

“You heading that way?” she asked, waving a thumb west, as Dean swung into the driver’s seat. She got way too close to the car, fingers curling over the window.

“Naw. Sorry,” Dean said, and started the engine. He pulled off almost fast enough to knock her over, but when he glanced back in the rear view mirror, she was still standing there, a forlorn statue, shrinking into the distance.

\----

When Dean finally hunted down the son of a bitch that had taken Sammy, almost a week had passed and he had forgotten all about the girl. The thing was an imp, a half demon. Probably grabbed Sam hoping to get in favour with others higher up the ranks. It was the kind of thing Dean was still getting used to, demons thinking of his brother as an _it_ , a bargaining chip, something material and not human. A tool.

The Imp died too quick, its broken body cracking under the pressure of holy water and a muttered incantation. Dean spent maybe three hours searching for its lair – for Sammy – but in the end he had to give up. There was nothing there. His brother was gone.

It was just the fucking situation that Dean had feared the most. He sat for a while, watching the forest, and was almost surprised when the tears came, hot and sour. He coughed roughly and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until they stopped.

When he got back to the car, the girl was there again – not sitting on the Impala this time, but against it. Her knees were drawn up, slim arms crossed on them. She looked about the same, in the same cheap clothes, her hair still obscuring half her expression. Maybe a little more battered and dusty. _A week on the road_ , Dean thought vaguely.

Again he was struck by a sense of familiarity – he was _sure_ he knew her from somewhere – but any further thoughts on it skittered as if striking glass, leaving a confused jumble of not-quite memories. Dean figured he probably pulled her face from a thousand woman: Mom, Jo, Sam’s Jessica, the girl he fucked three jobs back, the waitress who gave him her number just two days after that.

“You stalking me?” he asked, and the girl’s head snapped up. She scrubbed at her hair, looking (rightfully) sort of ashamed. Dean wanted to be pissed at her for following him so far, but really he was almost impressed. “You know, I’m flattered, but I’ve got work to do…”

“Just. Let me tag along. I need a ride and I don’t know where I’m going,” she said, seemingly not bothered that she wasn’t making any sense at all. Dean grunted, and moved around to the trunk to unload his weapons where she couldn’t see.

“I don’t chauffeur crazy people,” Dean said bluntly, “but you can borrow my cell. Call someone.”

When he turned back, the girl was staring at him with the oddest expression on her face. She looked heartbroken, lips pursed in a thin pink line, and Dean was hit again with a wave of recognition that was so strong he almost stepped back. When he looked at her properly again, though- she simply looked like a stranger.

“No one to call,” she said sadly, then hunched her shoulders and turned back to the road. She was doing her damned best to manipulate Dean into giving her a ride, but Dean wasn’t in the mood. He just let her walk off. When she was out of sight, he dug a divining chart out of the trunk of the Impala and went back to searching.

\----

The motel was unusually busy, almost every spot in the parking lot full. Dean got himself a room with two singles without thinking, and it didn’t even surprise him when the girl was already there, cross legged in front of the Impala, drinking vending machine coffee from a paper cup.

“Still working?” she said, sounding tired. She had obviously taken a shower – her hair was slicked back wet, and without it covering her eyes she looked better, prettier, almost startlingly so.

“Yeah.” Dean was too weary to even yell at her. The divining chart had placed Sam at around six locations, only one of which was even on the continent of North America. Ellen hadn’t heard anything, and Ash couldn’t even find a trace of Sam anymore. It was as if he’d been magically wiped away from the earth.

The trail just stopped.

“Listen,” Dean began, rubbing at the back of his head. “I don’t know why you’re following me. And I don’t care. If you get in my way then I can deal with you, but if you’re cruising for some kind of hook up, or even just a ride, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

Dean almost appreciated the irony of the situation. He was turning away a pretty chick, one who definitely wasn’t wearing a bra. But all he could even begin to think about was Sam. Sam who was gone. Sam who might be dead. Sam who got visions and nightmares, who needed protecting.

The girl stared at Dean for a long time, long enough for the keys in his hand to get sweaty and for the flush of anger in him to subside.

“I,” she paused, then stood, slowly unfolding her long legs. For the first time, Dean really appreciated the view. “You look like you need a drink,” she said eventually. “I’m going to go to the bar and get one now. Join me, if you want.”

It didn’t sound like she was coming on to him, and that was probably what made Dean follow her.

\----

She ordered beer, tilting the bottle indelicately as she drank. She straddled the barstool like a guy, and didn’t seem to care that her hair was drying tangled over her shoulders. Dean asked her name, and only realised when she grinned around a swig of beer how much he wanted to fuck her.

“Robin,” she supplied, setting the bottle down next to its predecessor. It seemed to be all she was willing to give, and Dean wasn’t in the mood to push. For the most part, they were silent.

Dean thought, if he managed to get her to bed, it would be the easiest pick-up he had ever made.

“So why are you on the road?” he asked, eventually, half expecting some sob story involving an abusive ex-husband, and maybe a miscarriage. Instead, she was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, her answer sounded forced.

“It’s kinda my job.”

“To wander around bugging people? That’s your job?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, staring at her hands. “Got into some trouble, got separated from my partner, now I’m just. Waiting.”

“For what?” Dean distractedly pressed his hand against Sam’s cellphone, tucked in his pocket.

“For him to find me? I think,” she smiled and ran her hands nervously through her hair. Dean took in the curve of her slender neck, the mole just above her collarbone. “You’re looking for someone too, right?”

It was a reality check, and Dean turned back to his drink grimly. He had lulled himself into thinking that Sam was waiting for him in the motel room, fucking around on his laptop, watching porn, whatever. Only he wasn’t. He was gone. “Right.”

Dean slid from the stool, and with immense self-control, managed to stop himself from touching Robin. “It was interesting to meet you,” he said, smiling as charmingly as he could. “Don’t sleep on my car.”

“Goodbye,” she replied, oddly formal.

After Dean left her there, he checked the motel register. She had booked a twin room under the name of Robin Zander, which made Dean laugh, because it was just the kind of name he used to make up for the fake ID cards .

\-----

Dean awoke to Ellen calling with more information from Ash about the Imp. It didn’t teach him anything he didn’t know already – the thing was a bottom feeder, sucking up to the demons around it and messing up the lives of as many humans as it could in the process.

It seemed to thrive on tricking people: causing family members to accidentally kill each other, starting unfounded disputes between old friends. Whatever human bond it could usurp, it did, using powers that ranged from plain old mind control to something more twisted – the ability to warp the perceptions of those around it.

They were trash. Dean could have wasted one on his own, unarmed. But somehow this one had wriggled around his defences. _Their_ defences.

It did _something_ to Sam, and died before Dean could force it to talk. Nice going. Dean felt like he was a teenager riding shotgun with Dad again, the way he fucked up, losing the silver knife and almost losing an arm as a reward. He hadn’t made a mistake like that in years, and he was almost certain that he wouldn’t have if Sam had been there.

 _Which is the point,_ he thought bitterly. _Sam isn’t here._

Dean’s brooding was interrupted by a heavy knock at the door. He knew before he answered it that it was Robin, wearing the same grubby T-shirt and jeans, and a sunny, dimpled smile that made Dean’s throat tighten.

“Don’t worry,” she said, holding out a coffee, “I didn’t sleep on your car.”

“That’s good to know.” Dean took it without much question, but drew the door half closed behind him to hide the papers spread across the table and bed. He was about to say something, anything, to send Robin on her way, as confusingly beautiful as she was, when she interrupted him.

“I know you’re working,” she started, seriously, “but I wondered if you wanted to get breakfast first.”

It was such an odd request, Dean wasn’t sure how to respond. He hadn’t slept with her, or even given out his last name, but here she was asking him for breakfast at some greasy roadside diner with all the gravity of a first date.

There was a hunt waiting for him – his brother had to be somewhere, shrouded in magic, in the custody of some demon. Hell, maybe even wandering the roads with no memory. Dean wanted to just say no, go back to work and hope that this time Robin would leave for good.

Instead, something about her smile, a hopeful tilt of the lips, made him lock the door behind him and shove his hands in his pockets.

“All right, all right. Let’s go.”

Robin fell perfectly into step beside him as they crossed the parking lot, and for some reason, it made Dean feel better.

 

\----

Robin ordered something disgustingly healthy at the diner, and Dean opted for just disgusting. He sat and watched her slurp at her coffee, wondering what it was about her that made him feel so at home. He couldn’t really put his finger on it, and it was beginning to bug him. Every time it felt like he was grasping at a glimmer of recognition, his thoughts just slid away, and he was left feeling confused and increasingly more frustrated.

“Heard anything from your partner yet?” he asked lightly. It had sort of been implicit that this partner was her lover, and Dean supposed that was why there was an odd tension between them. Dean got the feeling Robin wanted it as much as he did, but he also got the feeling she was trying her best not to consider it.

“No. I don’t know how hard he’s looking, though.” She seemed more amused than upset by that, so Dean just raised his eyebrows and said nothing, tossing back the last of his coffee. Robin didn’t even blink when he mopped up syrup from his plate with his finger, and stoicism in the face of his gross eating habits was something he respected in a woman.

“I’m heading out today, and I need to know you won’t follow me,” Dean said, watching Robin scoop back her hair from her face and tie it roughly there. She stayed silent, although her lips were pursed as if she wanted to say something she shouldn’t.  
“I can’t give you a ride, Robin,” Dean added, trying to sound as firm as he could.

“I’m going to follow you,” Robin said, grimly. “You need my help finding--” She cut off abruptly, lips pursed, looking frustrated, and stared down at her half eaten oatbran muffin.

“What do you know about that?” At the mention of Sam, Dean was all business, voice sharp, eyes narrowed.

“I--” Robin faltered, frowned and started again, “I’m a psychic.” She looked surprised, as if she hadn’t expected to reveal that, and Dean sat back, the leather of his jacket creaking against the leather of the seat.

“Great,” he muttered. The worst thing was, he couldn’t even tell whether he was being sarcastic or not.

\----

Dean let Robin in, let her fumble through the papers he had printed off from Ash. He didn’t even question that she knew the password to Sam’s laptop. Whatever kind of psychic she was, she was a damn powerful one, because as she was rifling through the information she asked, “Is there any reason you’re wearing his shirt?”

Dean didn’t say that it made him feel better. Instead, he took a seat on the unused bed and watched her as she flitted from sheet to sheet, muttering to herself.

“I think it’s a spell. Imps are known to bewitch people right? Which means there’s some kind of trigger…”

“Woah, woah. How’d you get to know so much about this?” Dean could buy Robin knowing about Sam – they were both psychics after all, maybe there was some kind of freaky link between them. The more he thought about that though, the more confused he became, so he changed direction and focused instead on how much she knew about hunting. It just wasn’t something everyone knew: spells, bewitchings, demons.

“I picked it up,” Robin evaded, poring over the map. Her hair was in her eyes again, and she didn’t push it back, just let it hang there in the way. It was just like…like something Dean couldn’t remember, another thought sliding away before he could grasp it. The whole situation was driving him crazy.

“You picked it up. Great. Listen--”

“Dean,” Robin was staring at him, hair still in her eyes, jaw set. When she spoke, it was with a commanding tone that gave Dean a sort of thrill. “You need to trust me. I know where S-” She stopped, paling, and Dean could see her throat working for a while, as if she was trying to finish her sentence but couldn’t.

“Sam,” he supplied, surprised by how rough his voice was. Robin nodded, rubbing her lips and looking upset.

“Yeah. I know where he is. He’s trapped, in a spell. We just need to--”

“ _We_ don’t need to do anything,” Dean snapped. He’d had enough of this. Enough confusion, enough of a stranger rummaging through his life, Sam’s life. He stood and grabbed Robin by the arm, tugging her away from the printouts and the laptop, to the door. “You need to go, find your partner, fix your own life. I need to _find my brother_.”

“ _Dean_.” Robin said, and Dean realized how close she was, how warm.

It took no effort at all to reverse the punishing grip he had on her arm, to pull her flush against him, to kiss her. She barely even hesitated, tilting her head back to let in his tongue, a jumble of hot mouth and hotter skin, quivering tense under his exploring fingers. She tasted like coffee and smelled like complimentary motel shampoo and beneath that, sweat. It was _good_ , it was heady, and Dean wasn’t prepared for when it ended.

“No. No,” Robin said, pushing back, rubbing at her red mouth. “No. I can’t do that. I won’t.”

Dean stepped right back. It was the first thing he ever learned about women: no always means no and there’s no good way to push it. He knew he was a sleaze, but he wasn’t an idiot. He just watched as Robin had a minor sort of breakdown, clasping her hand to her mouth, and pacing unsteadily from one side of the door to the other.

When she finally stopped, Dean moved carefully past her and opened the door.  
“I’ll look into the spell,” he said, wearily. “Just go, please.”

Robin nodded silently, and left.

\----

Dean spent all night looking for a counterspell, for any mention of a trigger. He came up with a pile of nothing. Nothing but a lot of theorizing and hand-waving. Some said that speaking the subject’s true name aloud would bring them back, but three choruses of _Samuel Winchester_ later and Dean was still alone in his motel room, nothing to show for his efforts.

He finally fell asleep on top of Ash’s printouts, his face on a scan from a grimoire, and ten pages of South American folklore tangled between his legs. He dreamed about Robin, about her mouth, about her slender neck, and woke up hard and with several hundred words of demon lore printed on his cheek.

It was still dark out, and Dean could see the light glowing from beneath the door to Robin’s room across the courtyard. He knew how easy it would be just to walk over there and knock on the door. He knew her defenses wouldn’t hold up against a second assault. He knew that, and felt sick for knowing it.

He was about to go back to bed, for real this time, when he saw the light in Robin’s room flicker and swim. When it continued to do so, Dean felt sour fear swell in his gut. A psychic, like Sam. The right age, too. It was too close to the Winchester mythology for Dean’s liking. He grabbed his key and ran.

After he knocked on the door there was a moment of sickening silence, and Dean wondered frantically if he was too late. He was taking a step back, ready to kick down the door, when it finally opened, Robin propped up against it. Her dark hair was sticking to her forehead with sweat, and her breath came in ragged pants.

“God. Dean,” she trailed away, and let him hold her. Robin shook in his grip, reaching up to clutch at her head, and Dean recognized the feeling of his arms around her, trying desperately to pin down where he remembered it from. “Just a dream,” she said, finally, voice muffled against Sam’s shirt.

“Yeah. I know,” Dean murmured. And somehow, he did.

They sat like that for a moment, Robin slowly calming down until Dean could no longer feel the tension strung through every inch of her and knew the vision was gone.

“Where did you come from?” he asked, gently, tugging her away just enough to see her. He knew there was no answer, so instead he simply took her in, the flush spilling across her cheeks, her hair curling against her neck, just by the mole. All Dean wanted to do was _taste_ her. He almost felt he could already.

“I can’t,” Robin whispered, face twisting. “You’ll hate me.”

When she tried to speak again, Dean kissed her, and she clambered onto him, arms winding tight against his back. That made more sense than anything, the feel of her pushed against him, the jut of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts.

She was aggressive, twisting her fingers in his shirt, in his hair, and Dean let her, riding her through the anger of her kisses. He knew how that felt, to hate himself for wanting something he shouldn’t. For taking it anyway.

“Dean, Dean,” she groaned, throwing her head back. Dean took the chance, running his mouth wet and open down her neck, tugging his fingers through the tangle of her hair. He palmed her breasts through the thin T-shirt and she made a muffled, bitten off sound, crawling back and away from him.

She stopped, on hands and knees, panting. Her hair was shielding her eyes, and her expression was so carefully blank Dean found it impossible to tell what she was thinking. His mind stuttered at that, looking for a connection he already knew he wouldn’t remember.

“Are we doing this?” Dean asked, voice heavy. After a long moment, Robin stood and moved to the light switch.

“Yes,” she said roughly, flipping the switch and plunging the room into darkness. “We are.”

\----

In the dark, she was even wilder, tugging off her T-shirt and snorting impatiently when it tangled on her arm. Dean laughed then, and after a moment she joined him, their shared laughter turning into more insistent kisses.

“God,” she said, when he moved his mouth to her breasts. “God, you have no idea, Dean.”

Dean had plenty of ideas, but he didn’t try to understand her. He moved to pick her up, but she was taller than he expected, and they tumbled roughly on the bed. She just laughed again, more breathless this time, and grabbed the waistband of his jeans with both hands.

“Come on,” she said in his ear, voice low and commanding. “Come on. Now.”

Dean groaned at that, at her _orders_. He’d never been so hard in his life, and already her hips were moving against him, a ragged, inconsistent, _unsatisfying_ movement. She dragged Sam’s shirt from Dean’s shoulders, taking the T-shirt beneath with it. Dean sucked in a sharp breath when she pressed her bare torso against his, and for a moment everything around him was her. Her skin, her hair, her lips.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean groaned, digging his fingers roughly into her ass. She laughed and pushed him down, pressing her palms flat against his chest and leaving them there, a deceptively heavy pressure.

“You want me?” she teased, still using that voice. That fucking voice. Dean wanted to keep her, just so she could talk to him like that all day long.

“Yes, Jesus…”  
At his response, Robin ground her hips down, almost painfully, against his erection. She kept her hands on his chest still, dropping her head down until her hair brushed against his bare skin and her mouth was close enough for him to feel every word as a hot exhalation against his throat.

“You want me?”

It was too much. Dean thrust up against her, cupping the back of her head with one hand and clutching her wrist with another. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was probably being too rough, but Robin only groaned in pleasure, twisting in his grip, and returning his kiss in kind. She was so incredibly hot – Dean slid his thumb down her neck, pressing at the blood thumping there, stroking around the mole, dropping his head to kiss it.

When he moved his hand to the buttons of her jeans, she pushed up, encouraging him with her hips. Dean was as careful as he could be, easing her onto her back so she could kick her pants away. Her legs felt a mile long, hot and tense beneath his hands. Dean could feel her shaking, smell her, how wet she was, and he dropped his face down to moan and press a kiss against the taut, quivering skin of her stomach.

He stroked her through the plain cotton of her panties, gently at first, and then harder when she let out a frustrated sort of growl. “Come _on_ ,” she said, her hands tangled in her own hair. Dean knew how she felt.

“Robin,” he said, voice rough. She squirmed beneath him, hips bucking hard against his fingers.

She let out a moan that stuttered into a laugh and said, breathless, “Fuck me. _Come on_.”

Dean didn’t move instantly, and so Robin thrust up, toppling Dean over again and fumbling at his pants. She palmed him roughly through the denim, swearing at the buttons, and Dean heard himself laugh.

“Oh Dean,” she breathed, her voice abruptly tender and contrasting with the insistent tug of her fingers. She dragged down his jeans and pulled his cock out, stroking it twice, roughly.

Dean groaned and tossed his head. He was already embarrassingly close, and she was doing far too good a job with her hand. “W-wait, wait,” he managed, flashing her a grin. She stopped, sitting back and tossing her hair away from her face. She looked like a fucking _vision_ , flushed and perfect, her mouth red and open and wet.

“In the wallet in your coat, right?” she nodded to his leather jacket, discarded by the door. Dean was thrown for a second, but then he remembered, _psychic_ , and wondered if Sammy would ever be this good.

“I got it,” she murmured, and sauntered over to the door to get the condom. All Dean could do was watch, his erection hot like a brand against his stomach. This woman. _Damn_. She was going to _kill_ him.

She took her panties off on the way back and Dean got the hint, shedding the last of his clothes. For just a moment when she clambered back on the bed, she looked vulnerable, not quite meeting Dean’s gaze as she tore the foil packet.

“Hey--” Dean began, but was interrupted by a kiss, as rough and demanding as any of her others. She fumbled for a moment, then rolled on the condom with all the ease of a pro. Dean groaned and slid his hand between her legs, feeling her, how wet she was.

“Dean,” she said, moving to sit astride him, his erection rubbing slick against her hip, “Don’t hate me.”

It was another command, fierce and compelling. Dean wanted to say something, something pathetic about how he could never hate her, this woman he had only just met. Robin, with the name from a forged ID card. Dean wanted to say _something_ , but she was moving hot above him, saying “ _Come on._ ”

And then he was inside her, and he couldn’t say any words at all.

\----

Dean slept for a while, curled up behind Robin, his nose pressed between her shoulder blades. When he woke up, the room was filled with the watery half-light of dawn. He could feel her breathing, see that she had a mole on her back, too, just left of her spine.

He sat up, hoping to watch her sleep for a while, but his movements woke her and her eyes slid open, suddenly vigilant. It was just another thing about her that was familiar in a way Dean felt he might never quantify.

“Dean,” she murmured roughly, sitting and pushing her hair back from her forehead. She was so damn beautiful, Dean thought, and wondered what it would be like to know everything about her.

“Winchester,” he said, finally, whether she knew it already or not.

“What?”

“Winchester. My name. Dean Winchester.”

Robin’s eyes widened, and her lips parted in an expression Dean couldn’t really measure. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse. “Dean Winchester. Sam and Dean Winchester. Sam Winchester. Sam.”

At the mention of Sam, something in Dean seized up, and he missed his brother as abruptly and as deeply as he had desired Robin. She seemed to see it, because she kissed him and dropped her head to lie on his shoulder, staring out at the morning.

“Get me some coffee?” It was a suggestion, but underneath it Dean could hear the order, and he laughed. He didn’t ask her how she liked her coffee, just tugged on his clothes and left her, sitting tangled up in the sheets, her hair falling into her eyes.

\----

When Dean got back, Robin was gone. The sheets were still tangled, and they still smelled of her, and of sex. Dean stared at them for a long time, then trudged back to his own room, feeling cold and weary and alone.

He packed up his papers, drank his coffee before it got cold. He took a shower, chose another of Sam’s shirts to wear.

When finally shouldered his bag and went out to the parking lot, she was sitting on the hood of the Impala, long legs stretched out in front of her.

Except it wasn’t Robin at all, it was Sam, dressed in the same dirty clothes Dean had last seen him in, looking pale and drawn but seemingly unharmed. Dean dropped his duffel, but stood where he was, taking Sam in properly. The whole lean length of him, and his stupid fucking hair falling in his eyes.

It had been a week, but it felt more like half an hour, and abruptly, Dean knew why.

“Fuck.”

Sam pursed his lips, looking as if he were torn between being hurt, and being as confused as Dean was. In the end, he just ducked his head and got in the car, and Dean joined him, settling into the driver’s seat.

“Dean,” Sam began, and Dean ignored him, starting up the Impala, savoring the way she roared to life beneath him. This should have been a relief. His brother back, back to hunting again. Instead it was something else entirely. “I couldn’t say anything, it wouldn’t let me.”

Dean rummaged in his cassette tapes, looking for something suitably angry.

“I couldn’t even say my own name. My full name, that’s what broke the spell.”

Right, and Dean had only thought to introduce himself after sex. It would have been ok, if he had just been a gentleman about it.

He forced himself to look at Sam, wondering if he would see her in him. Instead, he remembered all the times he had seen Sam in Robin and not even realized.

“Fuck.”

Dean wanted to try it again, see if Sam tasted the same as she did, made the same noises. He turned back to the steering wheel, took in the thrum of the Impala’s engine for a few minutes, waited for Sam to continue.

“I need to know you’re ok,” Sam said, eventually. “Hell, Dean – I don’t even know if _I’m_ ok. Just--”

“I’m ok,” Dean said, finally, and as soon as he said it, he knew he was. He glanced over and met Sam’s wide eyes. And it was Sam, just Sam. It had been Sam all along. Dean had no idea what that meant, but it was fine, because it was _Sam_.

“Jesus _Christ_ Sammy, you gave me a hell of a time,” When he leaned over, Dean was met halfway with a kiss- Sam’s mouth parting just a little beneath his. It was different and it was exactly the same and it was _right._ Sam moved back and Dean grunted, pulling away from the motel parking lot with a grimace. He caught a glimpse of Sam’s smile in the mirror, and gritted his teeth to avoid smiling back.

“You know, you never got me that coffee,” Sam said, as they hit the open road.

**Author's Note:**

> First posted 01/02/2007 to the now defunct Antiship community on livejournal. Cleaned up and posted here for posterity.


End file.
